Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales (33 page)

ON THURSDAY MORNING,
security was tight at the Chesapeake Municipal Complex, a classic case of locking the barn door after the horse got out. The place was literally crawling with police and bomb-sniffing dogs. Security checks at the courthouses came as close to strip searches as the law would allow. There were no exceptions. Even lawyers who had been practicing in that court their entire professional lives had to endure pat-downs and open their briefcases so the deputies could riffle through their stuff.

The media presence had quadrupled. Nothing like a good old-fashioned shoot-out to get the American public interested.

Though it hadn’t been easy, Landon had talked Billy Thurston into staying home with Maddie. He had shown enough heroism for one trial. His leg was in a plastic cast and needed to be elevated.

“I know you hate to miss the action,” Landon had said. “But I’ll give you a blow-by-blow tonight. Besides, there’s nothing more important than knowing that Maddie’s safe.”

Taking Billy’s place was Parker Clausen. He had trimmed his beard and put on an expensive black suit that he had apparently not worn since gaining his last ten or fifteen pounds. It made Landon hot just watching the big guy sweat as they stood in line outside the metal detector waiting to get into the courthouse.

Elias met them in courtroom three. His leg was heavily bandaged and in a cast. He sat at counsel table with it stretched straight in front of him, sticking out from under the table.
That should strike a nice sympathetic chord with the jury,
Landon thought. Elias was still on a few painkillers but said it didn’t affect his thinking. To Landon, he seemed a little more mellow than usual.

Court began with a thirty-minute argument about whether the trial should go forward.

“What are we going to tell them about the shooting?” Sherman asked. “They’ll certainly notice Mr. King’s leg. And with all the commotion that occurred yesterday, most of them already know.”

When Landon stood to offer his counterargument, he said he had a novel idea. “What if we just tell them the truth? I know that thought would never occur to Mr. Sherman, but how could it hurt? We don’t know who shot my client and me. We just tell the jury the truth about what happened and instruct them that it shouldn’t affect their deliberations either way.”

“You really are a rookie,” Sherman scoffed. “‘Okay, folks, somebody tried to kill the defendant, but just ignore that.’ That’s really fair.”

“Enough,” Deegan snapped. “We don’t need the attorneys acting like children.” She glared for a moment at Sherman, and Landon felt vindicated. “Now sit down, Mr. Sherman.”

Deegan ruled that the case would go forward. The jurors remaining on the panel had been in the jury room during the shootings, away from all sources of outside news or influence. They were already several days into the trial, and she was determined not to let whoever had carried out the shooting disrupt the administration of justice. “The less said, the better. I’m going to tell them that Mr. King was injured in an incident at
the courthouse yesterday but that his injury and the underlying incident have absolutely nothing to do with this trial.” Without waiting for a response from the lawyers, she turned to her deputy.

“Bailiff, bring in the jury.”

///

As expected, Sherman’s next witness was Phillip Truman, the lead investigator on the case. The man looked nothing like the hard-nosed detectives that populated all the TV crime shows. He had a more studious look, like a college professor. There was something about his bald pate, his pudgy nose, and his soft brown eyes that made you believe he was a man without guile, somebody who couldn’t tell even a white lie without blushing. He wore khaki slacks, a blue blazer, and a dress shirt without a tie.

His demeanor had been perfected through years of testifying. He spoke in soft but confident tones, never giving Sherman more than the question demanded. Landon could tell the jury felt comfortable with the man, like he was their favorite high school teacher helping them make sense of the scientific evidence.

Landon could have scripted Truman’s testimony himself. The detective first talked about his role in the investigation and his experience running hundreds of others like it. He gave a short lecture on DNA evidence and then introduced the DNA test, which showed that the prosecution was 99.99 percent sure that the strand of hair in the trunk of the defendant’s car belonged to Erica Jensen. In fact, according to Truman, the odds of that DNA belonging to anyone besides Erica Jensen were less than one in ten billion. The jury seemed duly impressed. A few members nodded.

Sherman introduced as evidence a download from Elias King’s cell phone showing text messages to and from Erica Jensen’s phone in the weeks prior to her death, some suggesting places they could meet and be alone. All of the texts were informal and casual, demonstrating the intimate relationship between them. One of the texts from Elias thanked Erica for “last night.”

There were phone calls as well. Lots of them. Even some from the night of the murder.

Shifting gears, the General asked Truman about the fingerprints found on the weights in the L.L. Bean bag. Yes, one of the prints belonged to Elias King. And to Landon’s surprise, they had matched the other print as well.

“Whom did that one belong to?” Sherman asked.

“Jacob King, the son of the defendant. We were able to pick up his fingerprints on some items found in the trash.”

“How did you know they were Jacob’s fingerprints?”

“We only found two sets of prints on the items we tested in the trash—soda cans, a couple of old pens that were apparently no longer working, and junk mail. Because only the defendant and his son were living there at the time, and because we already had the defendant’s prints, we assumed this other set belonged to Jacob. But just to make sure, we dusted the armrest of the seat where he sat Monday in this courtroom, a public place, and matched the prints.”

Next to Landon, Elias grunted his disapproval. If he had been prosecuting this case, his chest would have been puffed out with pride at such a clever trick, just like the General’s was now. But when you were on the defense side of the equation, it seemed a little sleazy.

“Did you ask the defendant whether he was missing two thirty-five-pound weights from his weight set?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said they weren’t missing any weights.”

“Did you ask the defendant’s son, Jacob King, whether they were missing any weights?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t respond immediately. But when he did, he also told me they weren’t missing any weights.”

“Did you have a chance to check out the weights yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Did they have any thirty-five-pound weights in the set you saw?”

“No. They seemed to be missing those.”

This was going to be Elias’s witness to cross-examine, and Landon wondered why he didn’t object. Even a first-year lawyer like Landon knew that the questions called for conjecture. But Elias seemed content to stick to the game plan he and Landon had crafted the prior night. They needed to get Truman off the stand as quickly as possible.

The General changed the subject again, this time to the hair-testing evidence. According to the witness, Erica had a compound known as gamma-hydroxybutyric acid in her blood at the time of her death. “That’s a date rape drug,” Truman testified. “It metabolizes so quickly that you usually don’t find it in the blood or urine even a few hours after its injection, but it can remain in the hair for up to six months.”

Lastly, Sherman asked Truman about the autopsy. He introduced the report itself as an exhibit and had the witness read the part about Erica being pregnant.

“Were you able to determine who the father was?” Sherman asked. He tried to sound curious, but everybody in the courtroom already knew the answer.

“The defendant was the father.”

“And how were you able to determine that?”

“Through the same DNA testing we discussed earlier.”

“Thank you, Detective Truman. That’s all I have.”

It was nearly eleven o’clock, and Judge Deegan suggested that they take a brief recess before starting the cross-examination. Landon was all for it.

Yes, he was interested in what was happening inside the courtroom. But he was far more concerned about events transpiring outside. If everything was going according to plan, Sean Phoenix should be arriving in the lobby of Chesapeake Circuit Court at that very moment.

AT AROUND MIDNIGHT
the night before, after talking with Landon, Kerri had sent a text message to Sean Phoenix. She had followed up with a phone call first thing Thursday morning. She was shaken up about the shootings, she had said. But she thought she knew who was behind them. They couldn’t talk over the phone, but she had to meet with Sean right away. She needed his help.

He wanted to meet that afternoon in D.C., but Kerri was insistent. Was there any way he could come to Chesapeake that morning? She promised it would be worth his time. The guy who had tried to kill Landon had it in for Sean as well. Somehow, he knew that Kerri was now working with Sean.

“Who is it?” Sean had asked.

“I can’t say over the phone. We need to meet. If you can’t make it, I can just give this information to the police.”

“Give it to Antonov. He can pass it to me on a secure line.”

“Sean, I’m not talking to anybody else about this but you. I’m not sure who else we can trust—not even Antonov.”

“You’re being paranoid, Kerri. The Wolfman’s been with me for years.”

“Then where was he yesterday? Why didn’t he stop the shooting or at least catch the sniper?”

There had been a sigh of resignation on the other end of the line. “Hang on a second,” Sean said.

When he came back on the line, he was all business. “I can be there by eleven,” he said.

“Great. Meet me in the lobby of the circuit court building.”

“Why there?”

“Security,” Kerri had said. “This place is crawling with cops.”

///

As Landon watched Detective Truman climb back onto the witness stand, he knew that the reporters who had packed the courtroom were in for a big disappointment. It was nearly eleven o’clock, and the defense team needed Truman off the stand as quickly as possible. The highly anticipated showdown between Elias King and Truman would fizzle out in just a few short minutes.

Deegan called the court to order, and Elias asked for permission to examine the witness from his chair.

“Of course,” Deegan said.

“Did you ever locate the witness who called in the report about somebody dumping a body off the high-rise bridge?”

“No.”

“How about that anonymous witness who called the Feds and got the insider trading investigation started?”

“That wasn’t my case. But to my knowledge, that person is still anonymous.”

“Did you ever find any evidence that I had obtained access to the drug found in Erica Jensen’s system?”

“No.”

“Where would a person get a drug like that, anyway?”

“Objection!” Sherman called out. “Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

Elias shrugged and moved on. Landon couldn’t tell if his indifferent demeanor was the result of the painkillers or if he was just posturing for the jury.

“Do you have any direct evidence that I knew about that meeting between Erica Jensen and Mitchell Taylor ahead of time?”

“What do you mean by ‘direct evidence’?”

“You know, a text message, a phone call, an e-mail, a notation someplace in my computer?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Did you find any of my fingerprints or DNA evidence in Erica’s apartment?”

“No, the apartment had been wiped down.”

“As I understand it, all of the offshore companies mentioned earlier in this trial could have been set up by somebody else using my computer; isn’t that right?”

“The companies can all be set up online. So conceivably—yes.”

“And during your investigation, you found that lots of folks at my law firm had access to my computer—true?”

“Federal agents took the lead in that part of the investigation. But that’s my understanding.”

Landon was struck by how straightforward Truman’s answers were. He didn’t try to fudge or counterpunch or dodge the questions. His demeanor was so calm and relaxed that even though the questions were damaging the prosecution’s case, you would hardly know it. He gave the impression that this was just par for the course, that there would always be a few holes in the prosecution’s evidence but it wasn’t anything to be concerned about.

“As a detective, you’ve probably investigated what—hundreds of murders?”

“I don’t keep a running count. But it would be in the hundreds, yes.”

“So you know that fingerprints can be recovered from items even after they have been submerged in water; isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, that’s something I am aware of.”

“And that this drug in Ms. Jensen’s system—gamma-hydroxybutyric acid—stays in the hair for up to six months?”

“I’m not an expert on hair testing. But I do know that drugs generally show up in hair for a period of months.”

“Wouldn’t you expect a prosecutor who had tried hundreds of cases to know these same things?”

As expected, this brought the General out of his seat. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained.”

Elias King didn’t argue the point. The jury had heard the question; that was enough.

“Well, let me ask my next question a little differently so that I don’t propel Mr. Sherman from his seat again,” Elias said.

The General stood again, arms outstretched. “Judge . . .”

“Mr. King, please leave Mr. Sherman out of this. Just ask your questions.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Elias waited for Sherman to sit down. He checked his notes. He leaned over and whispered to Landon.

“I want to give the jury a few seconds to get refocused,” he whispered. “Anything I need to hit that I haven’t already covered?”

Landon shook his head.

Elias turned back to the witness. “As an experienced investigator, didn’t it bother you that a suspect like me, a former federal prosecutor with more than a passing knowledge of how criminals get caught, would choose to dump a body off a high-rise bridge on a relatively busy highway? Wouldn’t you think that even a dumb criminal would know enough to take the body someplace private, like the Dismal Swamp wilderness, and bury it there?”

“He’s testifying,” Sherman said. “And I object.”

Judge Deegan didn’t look happy. “We talked about this,” she reminded Elias. “And you’re pushing it.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.”

“Objection sustained.”

“Thank you, Detective Truman,” Elias said. “That’s all the questions I have for now.”